


(What’s) Hidden by the Towel

by BlackDog_66



Series: Football Translations [3]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Boys In Love, M/M, POV First Person, Public Display of Affection, Translation, UEFA European Championship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 13:33:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3412514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackDog_66/pseuds/BlackDog_66
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Semi-finals between Germany and Italy at the Euro Championship 2012. Tears and comfort on the bench</p>
            </blockquote>





	(What’s) Hidden by the Towel

**Author's Note:**

> This is an official translation from a German fanfiction, that has been posted here:  
> http://www.fanfiktion.de/s/541e2b8c000035e2356a9182/1/Was-das-Handtuch-verbirgt
> 
> I have the permission from the author to translate it and to also post it here. Enjoy the story and visit the original when you understand German :) The story is completely made up and of course neither I nor the original author own any of the people or make any money with this.
> 
> The story was inspired by this picture:  
> http://blacky90.tumblr.com/post/98015833156/thomas-manuel-em-2012-germany-vs-italia

* * *

 

 

I sit down in one of the seats on the bench, my balled up jersey gripped tightly in my hands. It’s just to keep my fingers occupied; otherwise my agitation would stop me from staying still. In a vain attempt to block out the noise from the stadium and the fans, I let my vision tunnel to a pinprick. I focus on my teammates who are spread over the pitch, either standing or lying. All of them with the same guilty and sorrowful look in their eyes as they blame themselves for the defeat. The feeling of failure is obvious on their faces, not even the manager and his staff or the other players can console them. The disappointment over the defeat is simply too big. We had been so motivated to show the Italians what we were capable of, to erase their victory in the world cup 2006 from their minds. We wanted to display our strength and iron will, but this will had been destroyed within the first half.

I lower my head and warily rub my forehead. There are still small pearls of sweat on my temple and I absentmindedly wipe them on my shorts before I replace my hand on my brow. With every blink of my lids I can see the balls passing by me, can see the net rattling with every scored goal. Nearly compulsively I try to keep my eyes open and focus my gaze on the artificial grass. I can clearly see the place where Jogi paced during the game and my mind replays it: him pacing and cursing, scuffing his heel deep into the earth. My eyes are fixed on exactly this small area of crushed and broken blades of grass. I simply can’t close my eyes, because when I do, I only see my own failure anew.

My right leg touches the leg of the player beside me. It’s rocking up and down, nearly trembling with the intensity of the movement, not stopping for even a second, but getting faster instead. I turn my head to the right and recognize Thomas’ slim form. He is bend forward, the elbows resting on his knees and a towel is draped over his head. It hides his face from my sight as he presses it into the soft material of the cloth. I can hear a soft whimper and can feel the corresponding stab to my heart. The sound had been so quiet; the towel had nearly stifled it. But since there is only a small gap between us, it could just as well have been a convulsive sob. This soft and barely audible whimper hits me just as hard; sends a chill through marrow and bone.

I turn toward Thomas and place my right hand on his back. The knobs of his spine are clearly palpable through his jersey. Thomas is normally already very lean, but this defeat, that couldn’t even be stopped with his substitution, seems to have made him even gaunter. He’d only played for a mere twenty minutes, but he still is leached out. Even though he hadn’t made a pass that could have led to goal, he had raced over the pitch as if his life depended on it. I lean closer to him, but stop when I realize that the tape under his knee has come loose. Without thinking too much about it, I let go of my jersey and reattach the barely sticking tape to his leg. I don’t remove my hand afterwards, letting it rest on his knee instead, stilling the rapid movement in the process. The whimpering, however, continues.

“Thomas,” I whisper, hoping that the sound carries past the towel. He gently shakes his head and presses the towel harder against his eyes as if wants to nip his tears in the bud. A shadow falls over us and out of the corner of my eyes I can see that most of our players have assembled in front of the bench. Some are still trying to console each other, while others have started to clinically review and analyse the match. I ignore them though, as I gently squeeze Thomas knee and move my hand from his back to his shoulder in a – hopefully – comforting caress. Sluggish and nearly in slow motion my friend turns his head toward me, his hand finally letting go of the towel. It’s still lying over his head, hiding his face from the rest of the team, but he does reveal his pale and sad expression to me.

At once my own sorrow about the defeat disappears. I don’t care that I didn’t made the saves for the team or for the manager, the sight of the crestfallen and disappointed Thomas is what makes me regret not keeping a clean sheet. It’s seeing him like this: with tears that have been caused by my failure, soaking into the towel that nearly breaks me. If I had been able to think clearly in this moment, I would have known how ridiculous this thought is. No keeper could have stopped those shots, but the barely dried tear tracks on Thomas face let me question my own skills.

I remove my hand from his knee and slide it  past the white towel to place it against his cheek, just above the bone there. With the tips of my fingers I’m caressing the soft hairs right behind the ear. Thomas’ eyes slip close and a lone tear made its way down his cheek. I stop its path beside his upper lip, brush it away with my thumb. As if there is a magnetic pull, I lean even closer to the striker and in the end place my forehead against his. This way my face is also hidden by the towel. My gaze rests on his closed eyelids and then slowly wanders to his slightly parted lips. I listen to his breathing, which is slowly calming down, especially since my fingers are still moving soothingly through his hair.

Just as silent as the whimper earlier, Thomas huffs out a soft, “Manu.” His eyes, however, stay closed. The bench doesn’t allow much movement, still I try to get even closer to the other man, who finally as calmed down completely. Only his lips continue to tremble and it is something I am watching closely with growing desire. Another whispered, “Manu, please.” lets me abandon all remaining caution and I too close my eyes as I seal my lips over Thomas’.

His slightly rough lips seem to be alight as they touch mine. And it is this ardent longing that urges me to press them even closer. Thomas puts a passion into this kiss that I haven’t expected, but there is no way that I can stop it. Not that I want to end it, because it entirely absorbs me. Even though I’m the one who started the kiss, Thomas is now the one in control. Pleasantly wet and fervidly he repeatedly presses soft kisses against my mouth. Gently he breaks our connection only to brush his closed lips against my slightly parted one’s and then, just a second later, he reconnects them with another passionate kiss.

This intensive and soulful game causes my heart to jump in a way it has never done before. An energetic hand clings to my side and causes my skin to burn even through the material of my undershirt. A growing tingling low in my belly incites me to put even more desire into the kiss and a baffling fantasy has me tightening my grip on his neck. All with just one goal: to never let go of Thomas. But in the end reason wins, because the towel cannot hide everything and there is the risk of being seen, so I have to end the kiss. As I withdraw my head slightly, Thomas follows and looks imploringly right into my eyes. A smile creeps on my face when I see the longing in his eyes, so young and wild.

I slide my hand farther underneath the towel and it slips down to land on his neck. Now that we lost the screen against the outside world, reality comes crashing back in. For just a few minutes we had escaped it by slipping into our own little world. It had been my intention to ease Thomas’ inner turmoil and in an unintended side-effect I’ve calmed down too. The untamed, but still somehow near juvenescent desire in his eyes shifts to an affectionate gaze.

“Thank you, Manu.” He says firmly and honestly. My only reply is a barely visible nod that only Thomas notices.

 

The End


End file.
